As I take a sip, my eyes close at the velvety richness. The kid has stellar taste.
“You trying to get laid or something?”
His words are so slurred, I almost feel bad for him. Almost get him a glass of water, order an Uber, give him permission to be a scuba instructor (or whatever dream Daddy won’t let him pursue).
But if it weren’t for sad, clueless rich boys, I’d be hiding out in some shady motel selling blow to put dollar tacos in my belly.
You could say we need each other.
“Excuse me?” I raise a brow.
Liquor dribbles down his chin as he slams his glass, ice rattling. He wipes it away with the back of his hand while something inside me dies. Drops of gold, discarded as pennies. “You come to a bar with glasses and a book like a fuckin’ nerd, and you’re on a first name basis with the bartender? You’re too obvious. Have some self respect.”
His voice carries across the room like his ear drums have numbed. Drunk, stupid, easy. Every shark has noticed him by this point.
An escort slips from a booth and heads this way, smelling blood in the water. When our eyes meet, I give her the slightest shake of my head and watch the disappointment register in the fall of her cheeks. A worthy opponent.
She walks past, no doubt prepared to swoop in the second I’m gone.
I turn my attention back to the kid as he’s pouring the rest of the liquor down his throat. The move reveals cufflinks with a Cornell emblem on them.
Cornell. Not Dartmouth.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I chuckle weakly and push the book away. “I just got divorced. It’s been a while since I’ve been single.”
“Just get Tinder.” He tries to snap at Sherry, the slip of his thumb too sloppy for sound. “Lose the glasses, and you could do a hell of a lot better than a bartender.”
He whistles as well as he can while I finger the plastic frames of my glasses. When Sherry begrudgingly drops off my new bud’s drink, I raise my glass to toast him. “Any person, any study.”
His nose wrinkles as he stares at me. I wonder if my image is blurry to him. He lightly clinks my glass with his.
“You went to Cornell?”
I knock back the scotch, savoring the oak flavor I wish I had the time to appreciate.
I wipe my lips and squint at him like I didn’t just recite his alma mater’s motto as a toast. “You too?”
“Just graduated with my MBA.” His face brightens with interest that turns the oak on my tongue bitter. I’ve never understood the camaraderie that comes so easily to these IvyLeague kids. I was a nerdy asshole a moment ago, but because we went to the same school a decade apart, we’re gonna be friends. I went to Cambridge, but if I saw Oliver Cromwell, I wouldn’t assume we were blood brothers.
“Ah, MBA. Fancy.”
He shrugs modestly. Like I pried that information out of him.
“I’ve got a step brother who finished undergrad a couple years ago. I’ll have to ask if he knows you. What’s your name?”
“Duncan Thomas,” he says, so cocky he doesn’t even question why I didn’t just give him my brother’s name. Because he’stheDuncan Thomas. Son ofMr.Thomas, God of X,Y, or Z.
“His name’s Brady Johnson. His degree is something boring, though. Like…” I pretend to think. What would Duncan’s father find most appropriate? “Finance or economics or something like that.”
The kid reddens. His eyes dart to the bowl of nuts.
Right on the money.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know him.”
I hum an unspokentoo badand wait. Count to ten—slow, controlled, patient.
“So what’s your degree in?” he asks. My lips twitch with a subtle smile.
